


Disintegration

by kcstories



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Community: 7spells, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-10-25
Updated: 2007-10-25
Packaged: 2018-07-22 04:54:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7420741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kcstories/pseuds/kcstories
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tom is gone. Ginny unravels.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Disintegration

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** AU. Angst, manipulation, insanity, implied character death. In other words: not a happy story.  
>  **A/N:** The Potterverse is JKR's, not mine.

Had you been as innocent as you looked at first glance, you definitely wouldn't have been there, a silent witness to his resurrection and subsequent rise to power.  
  
Some even go so far as to say you helped him every step of the way, you switched sides ages ago, as far back as your second year at Hogwarts, though none of your accusers have ever been able to provide substantial evidence to back up their damning claims.  
  
No one will ever be able to prove anything against you either; on the off chance it still matters now, when all is said and done, and besides, the Ministry has bigger fish to fry.  
  
(Bellatrix is still at large, they say, or maybe that was only your imagination.)  
  
One might argue in your defence that you were still very young when he contacted you through that diary, that you were inexperienced and impressionable, while he was the first boy, the first _man_ who’d ever shown you any genuine interest.  
  
It wasn't easy sharing your parents’ attention with so many brothers, or to be the youngest of a large, tight knit family; overprotected and yet often overlooked.  
  
Not to mention that Tom Riddle (the name you knew him by, back then, and the one you still call him now, in your head) had always been extremely persuasive, and people much older and wiser than you had been fooled, taken in by his eloquence and charm.  
  
But of course that’s still simplifying matters, isn’t it? No one should try to explain what happened between the two of you with theories based on textbook psychology or the kind of clichés generally found in the pages of tacky romance novels.  
  
Your relationship wasn’t like that. It went much deeper.  
  
(It still does.)  
  
Of that, you are quite convinced and you feel that he deserves better; you both do; even now, after everything that has happened.  
  
Not that this is something you ever mention or even acknowledge to any third party. You don't speak.  
  
(You haven’t spoken in years.)  
  
You _can’t_ , because speech implies explanations you’re unable to provide and apologies you’re unwilling to utter.  
  
(You have nothing to be sorry for. You did nothing wrong. This is a trick or a test of wills. It _must_ be.)  
  
The painful truth of the matter is that you still love him to death, against your better judgment on one of your clearer moments (which are ever-decreasing in frequency) and despite yourself and in spite of everything.  
  
If anyone were to ask you today and if you still had some of that old Gryffindor courage left, you'd tell them it was a conscious choice, a path you took wholeheartedly and of your own accord.  
  
(The heart of a lion devoured by a poisonous snake.)  
  
You'd never own up to having been manipulated. You’re too proud. It’s a trait he might have taught you, or was that your mother’s influence?  
  
You honestly don’t remember.  
  
(And furthermore, he didn't. He wouldn't. You keep telling yourself that. It's not you. Or him. it's _them_.)  
  
You can barely recall what your life was like before —before him, before the events that led up to this point, before the beginning of the end.  
  
He never implied you weren't good enough.  
  
He never mocked you; never laughed at you because of a badly chosen Valentine’s card or the kind of unabashed, unconditional adoration only a teenage girl could show.  
  
Quite the contrary. He told you frequently how smart you were, and pretty and a Pureblood, and you couldn’t have been more perfect or ideal for him.  
  
The two of you were a match made in heaven, or whatever was generally considered heaven by someone whose sights were set on immortality.  
  
Meanwhile, you were certain he loved you.  
  
You were convinced love was something of which he was capable.  
  
(You still are.)  
  
It was a grave misconception, a terrible mistake, though not your first or worst where he was concerned; not by a long shot.  
  
And so he resurfaced and materialised a second time.  
  
Encouraged by the fierce power of your love, he was resurrected.

And so the war began.  
  
He couldn’t have done it without you. He said so himself.  
  
(Less and less, it occurs to you to doubt him. He’s still here, in your heart and head. He always will be. You just know.)  
  
You made your choice, and you insist, if only to yourself, that you have no regrets — not even now, ten years later, as you lie here all alone.  
  
Twenty-seven and they say it’s such a waste. You were such a pretty, bright young girl once, full of life, hope and promises.  
  
(What’s left now?)  
  
Some thought you were going to marry Harry Potter some day, and you’d be amused at that, throw your head back and laugh loudly at the irony, if you still had a sense of humour.  
  
(But you’re just an empty shell.)  
  
Yet days remain where you still believe, and find the courage to go on. They bring a new kind of clarity, albeit one that is often tainted by nightmares too.  
  
And they _have_ to be nightmares; you’ve convinced yourself of that, because it couldn’t possibly be true.  
  
Tom would never have—  
  
Still, sometimes the images persist, the lies (Yes, they must be lies, you insist; lies and hallucinations) break through your defences, and the white walls of the hospital room seem to be coming at you, closing you in, threatening to crush you, and then you scream and scream and scream some more until someone comes.  
  
Healers restrain you and inject you with something that doesn’t cure you or make you feel even remotely better (you’re a lost cause, they say), but at least it silences your mind and soothes your anguish, if only for a little while.  
  
You sometimes wonder if the medicine they administer to pacify you is the source of what makes you doubt yourself and him, and you have to ask yourself whether their true aim is to get you on their side.  
  
(They probably want you to testify, as though anything you might say against him would still matter, but either way, you’ve sworn your loyalty and love until the bitter end. You’re not breathing a word. Because this is not over.)  
  
In the corridor you can hear it vaguely, your mother’s hesitantly whispered lament; the one no one wants to subject you to.  
  
Such a beautiful young girl suffering to such a terrible extent with so much irreparable damage inflicted on her mind and body, and thank Merlin that at least he is dead (his worst fear has come true), but that’s of no consequence to you.  
  
It can’t be, because you don’t believe it. You can't. You refuse.  
  
(The two of you will live forever. He _promised_.)  
  
He was building a vast empire, creating an ideal world to his design, and he would never succeed without you.  
  
Though he didn't succeed _with_ you either, and inadvertently caused his own downfall.  
  
You’ve repressed the day he left, with her…  
  
Except you really haven’t, because it still rears its ugly head and comes back to mock and haunt you sometimes.  
  
(One more lie. Your mind is playing tricks on you. Or is it a side effect of the potion? Are they poisoning you, maybe? So where’s Pettigrew when you need him?)  
  
On that grim November afternoon, Lestrange violently disposed of her husband, while Tom dumped you, albeit less drastically; though the end result was still the same.  
  
"If you wanted honesty, you should have stuck with Harry Potter."  
  
But that couldn’t have been his voice, so harsh, cold and mocking, nothing like the warm, soft tone with which he once whispered your name.  
  
(This has to be a lie.)  
  
He's still out there somewhere, waiting, working out some fabulous scheme to come and fetch you, rescue you from them.  
  
Maybe you’re the bait. They kidnapped you to get to him, counting on him to arrange your escape and if so, then you’d gladly sacrifice yourself.  
  
(All this is nothing but deceptions and lies. A _smokescreen_ , isn't that the word you're looking for?)  
  
You’ve pushed to the back of your mind that you ever heard about the raid and the fact that Harry Potter was victorious and that if he hadn't been, perhaps you wouldn't even be here today.  
  
(That is, the little of you that is left. Perhaps death would have been a kinder, more merciful fate.)  
  
You close your eyes and travel back in time to when it was just you and him with a world of opportunities at your feet.  
  
That time will come again. He said he’d love you forever.  
  
(Until the end of days.)  
  
Tomorrow, they'll up your dosage and transfer you to another ward; two rooms down from Neville's parents.  
  
You don’t know that yet.  
  
Tom's gone, and so are you, or at least a part of you is, but with each passing day, reality matters less and less to you.  
  
Dreams are all you need to sustain you, dreams and hope and faith.  
  
(He’ll be back some day. They’ll see. He _promised_.)  
  
The night nurse shakes her head sadly and softly closes the door behind her as she leaves.  
  
You close your eyes. You’re sixteen again.  
  
You’ll be sixteen forever.


End file.
